


Night Terrors

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-05
Updated: 2001-11-05
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Memories best forgotten seem to rise up in the night.





	Night Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Night Terrors by Jo F.

Title: Night Terrors  
Sequel: No  
Author name or pseudonym: Jo F.  
Email Address of Author:   
Category: Drama  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: Violence, M/M/M sex  
Pairings Skinner/Krycek/Doggett  
Summary: Memories best forgotten seem to rise up in the night.  
Author Notes: Ok, here it is, finally. My second story. Who'd a thunk it? I'd like to thank the Academy -- or maybe just the folks who gave me the encouragement to write more. Hope you all like it. If you care, you can send feedback to me at the e-mail address listed above. And hey, the feedback I got from the first story encouraged me to send this one along. So, you know what to do! <G>  
Spoilers: None  
Disclaimers: Ain't mine, dag nab it! Never were, never will be. No money being made here. But they play so nicely together, I decided to call a play date.

* * *

Walter awoke, dripping sweat and panting. He was sitting up in bed and clutching the bedclothes in white-knuckle fists.

Looking around wide-eyed, he realized where he was. No jungle, no tall elephant grass, but home, his house, his bed. Looking at his bed partners to reassure himself that he did not wake them, and feeling a little more under control now, he laid back, letting his memories take him to that far-off, long-ago hell.

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Walter wiped the sweat away from his forehead and bent his head again, focusing on the paper in his lap. He'd promised the folks back home he'd write, so here he was, attempting to keep his word.

It was so damned hard to concentrate here. Everything around him was different. He'd just arrived in Vietnam 2 days ago, and considering where he was, it wasn't too unusual. He'd run into a guy he was in Basic with, Willie Tomlins, about a week ago. He'd asked Willie how things were going. Willie replied, "Fucked, man, truly fucked. I'm supposed to go into the boonies, man, and I don't even know what going on yet!" Willie had to hurry off, so there'd not been a whole lot of time to talk.

Walter was getting more and more nervous about joining a unit, but there was nothing he could do about it. **No sense worrying about it anyway, Skinner. You just go where the man tells you.**

Blinking, he came to his senses, realizing he'd been staring off into space. He focused once again on his task. He'd already written his mom and dad, a nice letter, not saying much of anything, really, except, "I'm here and still alive." He couldn't write anything real to Mom and Dad, it would upset them. But Uncle Pete was a different matter.

Uncle Pete. Pyotr Sergeiavich Alexandrov. Or, as he'd changed it to, Peter Sergei Alexander. Mom's brother. He'd changed his name at his father's insistence. Grandpa didn't want to have anything to do with Russia. "We're Americans now," he could remember Grampa saying. "We should sound like Americans!" He'd once asked Grampa to teach him Russian, but Grampa'd refused. But Uncle Pete was a different matter. Uncle Pete had taught him Russian, and they spoke in Russian every chance they got.

Uncle Pete was a veteran. He'd been in World War II, then was in Korea. He knew what war was like, so Walter had no problems writing the truth to Uncle Pete. Walter knew his uncle would understand.

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7 October 1970

Dear Uncle Pete,

I just wanted to drop you a line to let you know I made it here ok. I'm in Saigon. This place sure is different from home!

The first thing you notice about this place is the smell. It's overwhelming! I don't know if I'll be able to describe it, but I'll try. It a sharp smell, one that claws it's way up your nose, down your throat, and sets fire to your lungs, at least until you get used to it! It's kind of a combination of cooking fire smoke, this really horrible fish sauce they use on everything over here, rice fields fertilized with both human and animal shit, water buffalo, chickens, unwashed bodies and I don't know what else. It's terrible!

The second thing you notice about this place is the heat. Now, I know it gets hot back home, but not like this! It isn't just the heat, it's the humidity! It often gets over 100 degrees here, but you can just SEE the moisture hanging in the air! Your clothes never get completely dry, and neither do you. It seems like you get out of the shower, and immediately pop a sweat. We had to take a truck ride to get to this place. It's not too far from where we landed. We passed through a few villages. Uncle Pete, you would not believe the people here! I sat next to a sergeant who'd been here for 2 tours already. Little kids would run along side the truck. I thought they were giving the peace sign, you know, like they do back home? Nope, the Sarge explained it to me. These little kids, not more than 9 or 10, were telling me it cost $2 to have sex with their sisters. "Boom-Boom", they called it! Can you believe it? These little kids were pimping for their sisters!

The people here are just so different, to the point that I'm constantly surprised. They go to the bathroom in the middle of the street! It just doesn't matter where they are, if they have to go, they just go! The windows of the buses here all have wire mesh over them, like chicken wire. I asked the Sarge next to me about it. He said, "It's the gooks, man, the gooks. The gooks will throw grenades through the windows. See those gooks out there?" I looked out and all I saw was a bunch of shriveled up little old men squatting beside the road, like most of the people here, filling sandbags. They looked at me with such contempt on their faces!

I have to admit, though, Uncle Pete, there's a certain fascination with this place. Tiny people in cone-shaped bamboo sun hats, bicycle powered rickshaws, cluttered hovels built out of flotsam and jetsam, and naked children with large almond eyes all seem to be pages out of the National Geographic come to life!

Well, more later, Uncle Pete. Time for chow. I'll write more when I can. Take care of Mom and Dad for me.

    Love,

    Walter.

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28 October 1970

Dear Uncle Pete,

Well, here I am at Cam Ranh. It's a lot different from where I was when I first got here! And it seems like forever since I joined up! I've finally gotten "in-country." A joyous welcome was not forthcoming!

The Lieutenant looked at me and said, "Oh, an FNG, huh? Well, let's see. Hey, Sarge! Who got hit last night?" It turns out that I'd replaced a guy who'd been wounded.

The first night I was at this camp, it was hit by a mortar attack. Someone, in all the commotion, shoved me headfirst into a bunker. I guess I should be grateful it wasn't a latrine! It was pitch black in there and nobody was talking at all. Out of the silence and darkness, I heard someone say, "Where's the new guy?"

"I'm here," I said.

That was it, but there was something about that exchange in the dark that I'll never forget. That someone here might actually care about what happens to me.

I was told two things about being a new guy. One was by the Sarge. He looked at me, shook his head and said, "Newguy - some dumbass boot, fresh from the world, who don't know shit and will get at least 4 of us killed before he catches on." And he shook his head and walked away.

One of the guys I'm traveling with just looked at me and said, "Look, a gung-ho asshole, just itchin' to get into action."

Anyway, Uncle Pete, I'm finally out in the "boonies", sort of. I've not joined my regular unit yet, but I have the feeling that things will move pretty quickly. I got the word, I'm going from Cam Ranh, which is on the coast, to Da Nang, which is farther up the coast to the north, to up near Quang Tri, which is up near the border, to near Khe Sanh, which is in the DMZ. Pretty exotic sounding, huh?

Last night, for the first time, the reality of where I am and what I'm doing slapped me back worse than a nightmare. Now I'm in a war. Oh, God, I could really die out here. Up until then, I never took it seriously. It was happening, but it wasn't real. It was like TV, you know?

It's hard to tell who's in charge over here, Uncle Pete. Nobody wears rank here, and nobody ever salutes. You have to look at a cloth insignia rather than gold or silver. Don't want to give the NVA anything shiny to aim at, you know? Well, that's it for now, Uncle Pete. Gotta go walk through the weeds for awhile. Take care of Mom and Dad. I love you.

    Your nephew,

    Walter.

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11 November 1970

Dear Uncle Pete.

Probably just a short note. We received fire last night from a village. The lieutenant immediately called in an air strike. The next morning, he called for more supporting fire. While waiting for the shit to come down, I heard a rooster crow and wondered how he'd survived the artillery from the night before. All of a sudden, this village became saturated with explosions, mixes of phosphorus and high explosive shells that rained down like a steady hailstorm, raising jets of dirt like water spurts.

After this last barrage, we advanced into the village. A buddy of mine, Edgerton, saw someone moving and opened fire. It turned out to be an old woman. Edgerton was horrified and kneeled down to apologize. The squad leader told him, "Don't be sorry, she knows the rules. She shoulda been in her bunker. It's her own fault."

Edgerton told me later, "I should have looked more closely. I was scared. It was crazy to shoot like that."

Roberts, another guy, overheard us and said, "She coulda been a gook. She knew she was wrong. Look twice, Newbies, and you're dead." While we were dealing with the old woman, the squad leader found one of the men stealing a pair of shorts form a villager.

"Give 'em back...it's against the rules. You know that, Hawkins. I ain't having any new Lieutenant or somebody else run me in because you want a pair of shorts. Now, give 'em back to the lady."

I don't understand any of this, Uncle Pete. Edgerton was right to shoot the old woman, but another soldier got in trouble for stealing clothes? How do you know what's right?

    Walter.

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25 November 1970

Dear Uncle Pete,

You know, when I first came here, I thought that the Vietnamese people wanted us here, they appreciated our presence, wanted our support, and would treat us as friends or allies.

Bullshit. These people don't want us here. We went into a village today, and I was shocked by the hostile attitude of the villagers, especially the kids. I said to my squad leader, "I really think these kids hate us." Abernathy, the squad leader, said, "Hey, we try to kill their papa...this whole valley is VC."

I replied, "It'll take some time getting used to. I just hadn't expected to be hated. Not by them."

Abernathy came back with, "Ah, it don't mean nothing."

This seems to be the attitude of so many people here. It's like if everybody agrees that this whole war is fucked, then it won't drive you crazy. Drugs play a big part of what's happening over here. It's a way to deal with all the shit you go through every day. It also seems to be the way seasoned guys get to know an FNG. Pot's the most common.

Uncle Pete, sometimes the only way I can deal with all of this shit is to get stoned. It's a lot easier to get around here than booze. You can get a carton of marijuana cigarettes, usually called "bones" or "joints" here for $5, or you can trade them for a carton of American smokes. They just empty out the tobacco and replace it with pot. Nobody can tell the difference. Now, don't worry, I don't do it all the time, not even a little compared to some guys who stay stoned all the time! And don't tell Mom, she'll just worry. It just helps sometimes, you know?

    Love,

    Walter.

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16 December 1970

Dear Uncle Pete,

Merry Christmas. I probably won't be able to write for a while. We're going out to our regular base camp tomorrow. We're headed for a place called Khe Sanh. We just go where they tell us to go. I'm not sure how long we'll be there, but we'll be out in the bush. It looks like we'll be out there for a while.

You know what's weird? I'm not the FNG anymore! We got 2 replacements in from the World yesterday. Poor guys. Just got here and they're already gotta go out into the boonies!

We've gotta get packed, Uncle Pete. I'll send this off while I've got the chance.

    Your nephew,

    Walter.

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The sun was shining brightly on the base camp at Cam Lo. Walter had found a shady spot to spread out in. He had his writing paper, pen, cold drink (rare here!) and a couple of joints. He'd told Uncle Pete he didn't smoke very much, but lately it seemed lit it was all there was to do. Just sit and get stoned with the rest of the guys. He wasn't an FNG anymore, he been there 3 months now. A seasoned soldier.

He looked out at the camp. He was sitting not too far from the base camp's gates, in the shade of the sandbags surrounding the watchtower. His rifle was propped up next to him. Walter didn't go anywhere without his weapon. There was no quicker way to die. He gazed out at the crowd of people near the gate. Women, some with babies or small children, the old people. They always lived around US camps, living off the refuse of the American soldiers.

It always amazed him, and disgusted him a little, truth be told. That all these people could live off the garbage of a group of American soldiers. But they managed it somehow. And he was always surprised at how little garbage was left when the gooks got finished scavenging.

He didn't think about it much anymore. The fact that he called these people "gooks" now. He was determined, when he first arrived, that he wouldn't fall into that mode of thinking, to dehumanize these people. Now it was different. He'd seen enough blood, both American and Vietnamese, shed by both sides, that he'd become immune to it. And with that numbness came the feeling that they were somehow less than the soldiers around them. They didn't care about him, or his fellow soldiers, so why should he care about them? **We never asked to be here,** Walter thought. ** Why do they treat us like this?** Walter sat back, leaning against the sandbags, opening his beer and contemplated firing up a joint. He decided to wait a bit on that, he wanted to finish the letter first.

He used the time between his first swallow and second to savor the beer. Bitter tasting, but familiar, and cold. Absolute heaven, that coldness against the back of his throat. He'd never take this for granted again. It was so much better than drinking water in the field. There were so many times when all you did was fill your canteen, grit your teeth to filter out the bugs, and drink, and drink, and drink. Somewhere in the middle of your third canteen full, you started wondering about the bugs that slipped through your teeth, and added a purification tablet. This cold, yeasty brew was infinitely better!

A small noise drew his attention to the gate. He glanced up to see a boy, maybe 9 or 10, walk through the gates. Walter didn't think much about it. Kids wandered into camp all the time.

Walter turned back to his papers, but something made him turn back around. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, something that happened usually just before the shit hit the fan in the jungle. But this wasn't the jungle. What was going on?

He focused on the little boy who was about 3 meters away. The kid was taking slow steps toward the bunker that served as camp headquarters. All of the top brass was in there right now, at some kind of meeting. As he watched the little boy approach the bunker, he got to wondering. That was an awfully big shirt the kid had on. So warm for the middle of the afternoon. Too warm. He watched the kid for a few seconds more, all the while reaching for his rifle. The sight was up to his eye, target sighted, all the while the voice in his head was screaming, "Shoot! Shoot!"

Instinct was shrieking at him, and training had kicked in, so as soon as his target was properly sighted, he pulled the trigger. At that instant, time slowed down. He practically **saw** the bullet leave his weapon, saw it travel toward the small boy. He watched, horrified, as the child's head exploded, resembling nothing so much as a melon exploding on the sidewalk when dropped. But this was no melon, and Walter saw blood, bone and tissue leap away from the child, to splatter everything for about 25 feet. He watched the figure stop jerkily, and then saw him sag to the ground, with the suddenness of a puppet release from his strings.

Time came back to normal with a terrible jolt. Walter turned to the side, fell to his knees and immediately heaved the contents of his stomach onto the warm sand. After the dry heaves had subsided, he wiped his mouth on his shirttail and looked back at the scene before him. Soldiers were clustered around the boy, so thick that Walter couldn't see what was going on. He moved in slow motion, gathering up his writing gear, tucking the joints back in his pocket, and looked at his beer, now overturned and forgotten, soaking into the sand. He walked slowly toward the group, just as someone started yelling, "Who fired that shot? Who fired?"

Walter looked at the pitiful figure laying on the sand in the now too-bright sunlight. That heavy shirt had been pulled back to reveal row upon row of grenades, all set to detonate with the pull of a wire. Walter stared blankly at the child until one of the sergeants slapped him. He switched his blank gaze to the sergeant, and the man's words finally sunk in.

"Yes, Sarge, I fired that shot." Walter's gaze was pulled down to the corpse at his feet once again, but the sergeant grabbed him and pulled him away.

"Skinner, how did you know? How did you know about this little gook? How did you know he was wired?" the sergeant asked gently, realizing it wouldn't take much to push this man over the edge.

Walter looked at the man before him and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He shrugged. "I'm not sure, Sarge. I guess the shirt tipped me off. I just knew something was wrong. His shirt was way too big and too heavy. That's all." They had gone into a bunker, Walter realized. It was dark and cooler inside, and Walter sat down suddenly, his legs refusing to support him any longer.

"Son, you probably saved this base camp today. If it hadn't been for you, he would have taken out half the camp, and all of the officers," a new voice said. Walter looked up stupidly. The base commander, Col. Bruno, was kneeling before him, speaking softly. "I'm putting you in for a commendation. Your quick thinking saved us all."

Walter nodded automatically. "Thank you, sir," he muttered. "Sir, may I go back to my bunker now?"

"Of course, son." The base commander helped him to his feet, made sure he was steady and watched him walk back out into the bright sunlight. "Keep an eye on him, Sergeant. Make sure he doesn't eat one himself."

"Yes, sir. I'll watch out for him."

Walter stumbled back to his bunker, forgotten papers and rifle still in hand. Everyone he ran into wanted to pat him on the back or speak to him. He just wanted to get away from all of them. He stepped into the bunker and collapsed.

Walter looked at the papers in his hands, and wondered how they got there. After a moment, he recalled his earlier task. He got up and placed the crinkled papers on the box by his hammock, unthinkingly attempting to smooth out the sharp creases, running his hands time after time over them. He climbed carefully into his bed, staring at the ceiling, but not really seeing it, instead seeing the child once again.

He believed in this war, once upon a time. He knew that America was doing the right thing, coming here to help these people. He knew this, once. So long ago. A lifetime ago. He felt it was right, in his heart. Once upon a time. And now? Now he wasn't so sure. Wasn't sure they were right in anything anymore. These people don't want us here, the NVA is using civilians against them. He thought of the little boy once again. Tear welled up in his eyes and slid unnoticed down the sides of his face. What a waste it was. A life cut down. By his hand. His fault. His fault this child will never see his next birthday, never play with his friends again. Why didn't he just wound him? Why did it have to be a killing shot? Marine training. Every marine is a trained combat rifleman. What purpose did it serve? Was this the only thing his training was good for, killing children?

His fault. Walter closed his eyes. He kept seeing the little one move through the camp. Saw himself meeting the young eyes, so dark and frightened. He realized now that life was not all bright and light and cheery. That there was darkness and bleakness also. And that the darkness could reach out and envelope you in its cold arms, and never let you go.

How could they go on with this war? How could they justify all the killing? What right did they have?

Walter didn't know how long he laid there. Chow time came and went, dusk fell upon the camp, the moon rose high above them. Walter eventually drifted into an uneasy sleep, moving restlessly in his hammock, trashing around in the midst of a nightmare.

He dreamt of a village, like so many he'd seen before, children playing, old men watching his movement past their homes. Women cooking, or doing laundry, or hanging clothes out to day.

But there was one old woman that caught his eye. Sitting outside a small hut, the old woman stared back at him and would not drop her gaze. She kept watching him as he moved through the village. Watching him closely. She left her hooch and walked up to Walter, stopping only when she was standing right in front of him. Then she turned her face up, and looked into his eyes. And into his soul. Her gaze chilled him right down to the very bone.

And Walter, who had been thrashing around in his hammock, suddenly stilled.

Walter waded through the elephant grass, rifle at the ready, eyes never stopping their restless movement.

They'd been out on patrol for a week now. Always looking for Charlie. More often than not, they came up empty handed. Made patrols as boring as hell. No chance to do anything but walk. Walter had decided that they didn't see the VC unless the VC wanted to be seen. And usually when they saw Charlie, all hell broke loose.

It had been 4 months since he'd blown that little kid away. He thought about that as little as possible, but there were times that the blackness he carried in his soul overtook him.

He functioned automatically now, not caring that he'd not written his folks for months, not been able to write Uncle Pete, either. Allison's words came back to him during the blackness. "Baby killer," she'd said. And that what he was, wasn't he? A tried-and-true, bona fide baby killer. Allison was his ex-girlfriend back home.

Walter went through the motions of duty, but it was just that: motions. He didn't care if he lived through another day, and sure as shit didn't want to live through most nights. He just didn't want his buddies to die. One life taken rested heavily enough on his soul, he sure didn't need more!

Scanning the brush line, he didn't see anything unusual. Nothing to catch his eye. They'd been walking since dawn and had just entered this field of elephant grass. **This shit is harder to wade through than muddy rice paddies,** Walter thought. **At least with rice paddies, all you have to worry about is getting your feet tangled. You can mostly see any tripwires.** The elephant grass was mid-chest high and seemed to grab at you to hold you back with every step you took.

Walter kept to himself mostly these days, not making any attempt to join the other men. He knew what the others thought about him, trying to draw him out of his shell. He didn't want that goddamned medal they gave him. He'd never come out from behind those sandbags, there was not a moment that his life had been in danger. He had acted on instinct, pure survival mode, there was no conscious thought. If there had been, he would have wounded that little boy. But no, someone had to make up some shit somewhere, and he had been awarded the Navy Commendation Medal. Walter couldn't believe it himself. There was no way he deserved the Navy Commendation Medal. He hadn't done what anybody else (any Marine, anyway) wouldn't have done. It had to be Col. Bruno. He was the base commander who'd talked to Walter after the shooting.

Word had gotten out somehow and a member of the military press corps had come around to see him. A guy by the name of Levine and a short little troll-like photographer named...Doohicky? No, Frohike, that was it. Frohike had taken a bunch of pictures of him receiving the medal from his CO.

It had even gotten back to his hometown, for God's sake. His mother had sent him a clipping from the local newspaper. Typical "Local Boy Honored" type of story. Big fuckin' deal. Walter was NOT impressed. It had even made "Star and Stripes." His CO had sent a copy of that to his parents.

Walter was just tired of the whole fuckin' thing. People treated him differently, but he hardly noticed them anymore. He didn't get close enough to people these days. With two exceptions.

The only two guys Walter stuck close to where his smoking buddies, Ronnie Jenkins and Jack Porter. They kept each other awake and aware, when the shit was going down. Jenkins was a little guy, so damned goofy that everybody liked him. He made Walter smile in spite of the blackness inside. Barely 5'7", maybe 150 lbs sopping wet and in his boots, Jenkins looked comical standing next to Walter. Porter, on the other hand, was as tall as Walter and broader. His shoulders fulfilled the promise that Walter's body still only hinted at. A quiet man, Porter didn't say much to anybody. If he had to communicate to anyone but Walter or Jenkins, it was in a series of grunts. And you may as well give your soul to your Maker if Porter ever got truly pissed at you. Walter had seen Porter get drunk and rowdy at a little bar outside of Saigon when they were on a 5-day pass. Most of Porter's next pay packet went to that bar owner to pay for damages incurred when Porter got pissed off at this stupid fuckin' Army dogface and threw him through a plate glass window, then proceeded to use the bodies of the guy's buddies to make toothpicks out of the furniture. But where Walter and Jenkins were concerned, Porter was a little lamb.

The three men watched each other's backs when out in the field. They also sat, talked and smoked together whenever they got the chance. Which was quite a bit lately. It seemed like they were doing this constantly. Every time they sat down, Jenkins whipped out and rolled a joint to smoke.

They stopped a lot today, so Walter was more than a little stoned. He smiled slightly, listening to Porter giggle about something that Jenkins was saying. Listening to that high pitched giggle coming out of such a huge man always cracked Walter up. He tried hard to keep a straight face, The lieutenant was watching him for some reason today. Walter didn't know why, but it was beginning to piss him off. **Pot's making you paranoid, Skinner,** he thought. **Just try to keep your mind on shit.**

Walter kept his eyes on his surroundings. Blakeley was on point. He was a good man to have on point, Walter could swear sometimes that Blakeley was psychic. Not that he believed in crap like that, but it was really weird sometimes.

The Lieutenant was behind Blakeley, Bankers was next. Then came the 2 FNG's. Next was Ortega and Hopper. Then himself, Porter and Jenkins in the rear. They moved through the grass slowly. Too much could happen in the tall elephant grass. Shit, you could barely see Jenkins' helmet!

The Lt. called a halt, looked at his map and decided they'd take a rest when they cleared the elephant grass. Walter was glad, the pot had made him a bit lethargic, but he'd go as far as he was ordered.

They picked their way through the field carefully, keeping the edge of the field in sight. Blakeley reached it first, and called everyone else up to scout out the surroundings. Everybody looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Walter leaned on his rifle, looking forward to the respite. One or two hooches, not even enough to qualify for a village. No one in sight, not even any children playing. Way too quiet. He looked carefully at the area, and let his paranoia from the drugs take over. Where were possible ambush sites? Where in the hell would Charlie be hiding?

As they crept out of the tall grass, Walter began feeling ill. Something was so fucking wrong. There was no noise, no birds, no animal sounds. But where were the fucking gooks?

All of a sudden, Walter felt a breeze as he walked by one of the huts, strong enough to feel on his legs through his pants. He peered under the hut to find two almond-shaped eyes staring back at him.

"Fuck!" Walter yelled, and jumped away from the hut, swinging his rifle around and trying to take aim. By the time his sights were lined up, the eyes were gone.

"Whatcha got, Skinner?" Jenkins now stood beside him, with Porter on the other side and behind. Walter stood still for a second, then opened the door of the little hut. When he looked in, he saw 3 grenades on the floor.

Swinging around, he started screaming, "GRENADE! Run! Move your asses!" Porter, with his long powerful legs had no problem getting away, but Jenkins was falling far behind him. Walter was bringing up the rear when he saw Jenkins trip and hit the ground, hard. Walter came up, scooped Jenkins up mid-stride as Jenkins came to his knees, and hauled his friend out of danger. He had almost made it when he felt and heard the explosion behind him. The force of the blast knocked him over, his large body covering Jenkins. As he fell, Walter felt pinpricks in his back. Not too concerned about the pain, more worried about landing on Jenkins as he did, Walter waited until the smoke started clearing before he got to his feet and offered a hand up to his friend.

Jenkins jumped up, dusted off his pants, looked up at Walter and grinned. "Ya know, Skinner, if ya wanted to get closer, ya coulda just asked!" He waggled his eyebrows at the taller man, who laughed in relief. Jenkins clapped him on the shoulder and Walter walked away. Jenkins looked after his friend, and then looked at his hand, which felt wet. It was covered with blood. Doing a quick check, he soon knew that he wasn't hurt. He looked again at Walter, staring at the bloody handprint on the back of his fatigue shirt. Realizing what was up, Jenkins charged toward his friend, screaming for a medic.

Walter turned around just as Jenkins ran up. It was a comical sight, the little man trying to get the shirt off the large man in front of him. Walter laughed and pushed at Jenkins. "What the hell are you doing, Ronnie?"

"Shut up, Skinner! Porter, help me out here, man, he needs to get his shirt off!" Porter very calmly turned Walter around and pulled his fatigue shirt off, buttons flying.

Walter was astounded. What the hell was going on? Had these two gone absolutely batshit?

Porter, by this time, had literally ripped the T-shirt off Walter and gasped. Jenkins came around and took one look at Walter and started screaming for the lieutenant, just as Blakeley, the unit medic, arrived with the first-aid kit. Jenkins came around to Walter's front and started trying to unfasten Walter's pants.

Walter, by this time, was beginning to get seriously pissed off. He reached out, grabbed his buddy by the front of the shirt and lifted him off the ground. He shook Jenkins, and then brought the little man closer to look in his eyes. "You better start talking, Jenkins, and start in right fuckin' now," Walter growled.

Jenkins, dangling about 6 inches off the ground, looked back at Walter with fear in his eyes. "You're bleeding, buddy. Pretty bad. I just needed to see how bad! Please, man, just drop your pants for Blakeley. Please!"

Walter set him down and stared at him. He looked back at Porter, who just nodded at him with sad eyes. This, more than anything, frightened Walter. With shaking hands, Walter undid his belt. As his pants lowered, he could feel Porter's hand on his shoulder. He gulped and looked at Jenkins. "How bad is it? Am I gonna die?" Jenkins just stared at him.

"Skinner, I need you to lay down on your belly for me. Lieutenant, we need to call in a med-evac chopper. There's no way he can hump it out of here," Blakeley said.

Walter stood there, confused, t-shirt in tatters, pants around his ankles. Porter, Jenkins, Blakeley and the lieutenant were all jabbering at him.

Suddenly, he felt very light headed. Shock was beginning to set in. "Excuse me," he murmured, and attempted to sit down in the dirt. He was grabbed by both arms and lowered down on his stomach. Jenkins had spread a rain poncho down for Walter to lay on.

Walter could feel something move across his back and legs, like someone was wiping lotion on his back. He could also feel water running down his sides. He went to wipe it away and when he looked at his hand, he could see it was covered in blood.

He was confused. If he was bleeding, why wasn't he feeling any pain? Walter put his head on his folded arms. He could hear someone talking to him, but it sounded far away. He concentrated on the voice, and was surprised to discover that it was Jenkins.

"Hey, Skinner, they got a chopper comin', buddy. You hand in there, man, stay with us, ok?"

"Hey, Ronnie, I was just gonna catch a few Z's," Walter muttered.

"No, Skinner! Man you can't go to sleep! You gotta stay awake and talk to me, 'kay, buddy?"

"Fuck, Jenkins, can't you talk to Porter?" Walter mumbled into his folded arms.

"Fuckin' A, man, talk to Porter? Port ain't never got shit to say and you know that! Look up here, Skinner, and talk to me, you sorry piece of shit!"

"Yeah, fuck you too, Jenkins!" Walter looked up at his friend, but something caught his eye. "Hey, Jenkins, don't look now, man, but there's a little old Mama-san standing behind you, about 3 meters."

Jenkins turned around, rifle at the ready. He looked around for the woman that Walter reported to him, but saw no one but their own unit. "Hey, Skin, man, where is she? I don't see no Mama-san."

"She's right there, man, right near the tall grass," Walter said sleepily. He was trying to stay away like everybody wanted him too, but it was getting harder and harder. "C'mon, Jenkins, you see her, right? She's right th...." Walter looked again, and there was no sign of the woman. "Shit, Ronnie, she was there! You believe me, don't you? Ronnie? Jack, you saw her, right? Right?" Walter's voice was becoming slightly hysterical.

"Sure, Skin, man, we saw her. Didn't we, Ronnie?" Porter looked at Jenkins, nodding his head.

Jenkins, sat there, shaking his head, staring at Porter. He kept shaking his head. Staring at his huge friend. All of a sudden, he starts nodding, mirroring Porter's movements. "Saw her, yeah, man! Saw her! She must have been slipping in and out of the grass! That's it! Fuckin' A!" He kept nodding, looking like one of those bobbing-headed dogs in the back window of a car.

Walter looked back and forth between his friends. Well, if they saw her, he was ok. Walter knew that if he smoked too much, his perceptions were thrown out of whack. Like the time he made Porter fall out of his rack when he asked if he was sitting up straight. It was just after he started smoking dope. Walter could have sworn he was sitting leaning over!

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to he two men standing over their friend, the chopper arrived. The medic came out, started an IV and got the report. He looked at Walter and wondered how the hell he was gonna get this kid loaded by himself.

Porter solved that problem. As big as Walter was, Jack Porter was bigger. He helped Walter to his knees, positioned the young man into a wobbly stand, and then grabbed him in a fireman's carry, the only position that would put no pressure on Walter's wounds. He waited while the medic checked the IV once again. Porter carried Walter to the chopper just as easily as if Walter had been a small child.

Porter placed him carefully in the stretcher, face down, and helped secure the stretcher in the chopper. As he stepped away, he saw Walter turn his head and grin. He could barely make out the voice that said, "Oh, man, we gotta get us some of this shit! It's better than grass!"

Jack watched the chopper lift gracefully into the sky and dart off like a giant dragonfly. He kept his eyes on it until he couldn't see it anymore. Then, Jack Porter, that giant of a man, sat down in the dust of Vietnam, put his head in his hands and cried for his friend.

\-----------------------------------------

They got back to the Cam Lo basecamp three weeks later to find Walter pacing around the perimeter, bitching about how late they were. He came back to them 15 lbs lighter ("Goddam hospital food tastes like fuckin' garbage, man!) and a little heavier on the right side of his dress blues. While they had been away, Walter had been awarded a Purple Heart and a Silver Star.

Jenkins was right back on form, shooting off his mouth every chance he got. He did, however, stop Walter on the way back from chow one night, looked the tall man square in the eye, and said, in a quiet voice, "Thanks, man."

"Walter said, "You're my friend, man. What else could I do? You're welcome." And no more about it was ever said between them. Message given and received.

Jack was about the same as always. Quiet as he'd always been. But he kept a closer eye on his brave young friend. Jack had decided that nothing else would ever hurt Walter. Not on his watch.

Walter slogged through the mud, his whole body protesting the movement. They'd been on the go for 4 days now, barely stopping to eat and rest. Weary and aching, the small group moved on in the rain. Good ol' monsoon season had hit Vietnam, and they were just lucky enough to be in the middle of it.

The whole unit was exhausted, trying to keep up their end of the sweep. It had been reported that Charlie was heavy in this area and on the move, about halfway between Khe Sanh and Quang Tri. They weren't even trying to hold this land anymore, just making sure it was tough for Charlie. Orders had come down from on high that they were beginning to pull back from the DMZ.

They were moving slowly, because of the weather. Rain came down in sheets, **kinda like a cow pissing on a flat rock,** Walter thought. It had done nothing but rain for 3 solid weeks. **If I never see another raindrop in my entire life, it'll be none too soon!**

They were deep into the jungle at the foothills of the mountains. Visibility was bad when the weather was clear, "with this fuckin' downpour, it's down right shitty," Walter mused. He just put his faith in Blakeley, as always. He was with Jenkins and Porter, as usual. Leading them onward. Which meant the three of them were bringing up the rear. As usual.

The unit had just about been pushed to the limits, physically. They had been moving constantly, harassing the enemy at every opportunity.

The wet weather was screwing everything up. Walter's feet were cold and wet, along with the rest of his body. The rain soaked everything to the point they couldn't even have a fire for warmth. He was on the brink of exhaustion, almost to the point of stumbling. His pack felt like it weighed 4 tons, having been filled with extra C-rats and extra ammo. Everyone was packing extra gear of some kind. Walter felt bad for Porter, having to lug not only the M-60, but the bag with the extra barrel and tripod, along with all that ammo for it, too. His own ammo was bad enough, but the ammo for the 60 was three times as heavy. But Porter never complained.

Jenkins was unusually silent. The small man kept up a running commentary on just about everything under the sun, but not today. The constant downpour had put a damper on everyone's spirits.

In the three months since Walter had been hurt, not much had changed in his life. He still felt the blackness in his soul, but it didn't drag him down as heavily as before. He knew the killing of the little boy would be with him always, but the incident with Jenkins seemed to balance out his "karma" a little, or so LeVoy said. LeVoy was one of the FNG's, from California, a surfer who spoke of such things often. Walter humored him, not believing exactly, but knew deep down that the burden of guilt he felt over the child did feel a bit lighter. Maybe things did even out after all.

On they moved, trudging through the onslaught of weather. The wind had picked up and had now turned the downpour into almost horizontal rain. Trees were dancing violently, the branches swaying and dipping drastically. Walter walked along with his head down, weary to the bone. The whole unit felt exactly the same way. So it wasn't a total surprise, looking back, that they walked straight into an ambush.

They had come upon a large clearing. Initial recon had showed nothing. Either Charlie moved like lightning or recon had blown it totally. Either way, the whole situation was truly fucked up. Absolutely and Completely FUBAR.

When they entered the clearing, Walter kept his eyes moving. He didn't see anything but the stupid rain and the trees whipping around in the wind. Blakeley was almost to the edge of the clearing when the shit hit the fan.

Walter pulled back the charging handle on his rifle, setting it into "Rock and Roll" mode by sheer habit. The sharp click of a round being loaded into the chamber was the last clear memory he had before the little clearing descended into hell.

The rapid fire of fully automatic weapons sounded like thunder. The heavy smell of cordite filled the air. Smoke from the barrels of so many weapons hung in the air like thick fog. Walter and some of the other men managed to get some shots off, but Charlie was here in abundance, and no one was really sure where to aim.

Walter saw, in seeming slow motion, Blakeley and the Lieutenant go down. He just turned around, squeezing the trigger on his rifle all the while, not concerned that he really didn't have a fixed target. He realized a grenade had gone off somewhere in front of him, but his head was turned away, looking at the other men. He didn't feel the shrapnel slice into his chest and stomach, tearing him up much the same way as it did before, but to a much greater extent. He didn't feel the bullets pierce his upper chest and shoulders, or the round that went deep into his thigh.

He turned, still trying to fire his weapon, not realizing at this point that the damnedable thing had jammed, and was useless to him, and tried to find Jenkins and Porter.

Jenkins was lying on the ground, the front of his uniform bright red with blood. He had been right next to the grenade, and it had taken off most of his right side. Walter could see where Jenkins' face ended and the mangled tissue began. He couldn't believe that this happened to the funny little man who was his friend. This was some type of joke that he wasn't understanding. Stuff like this didn't happen to Jenkins.

His eyes found Porter stumbling towards him, still carrying the M-60, it's barrel glowing and steaming as the rain fell upon it. Porter reached out for Walter, grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close. Walter tried to support his huge friend, but realized that there was something wrong with himself. So, he did his best to ease Porter down to the ground, not paying any particular attention to the firefight still going on around him. Porter grabbed Walter once again, and attempted to stand. Jack's face was deathly pale, and there was something wrong with his eyes. They weren't the soft blue they usually were, Walter realized. One with black, with only a slight ring of blue around the outside, and the other was almost totally blue, with just a small dot of black in the center. Porter hugged Walter close, and whispered in his ear, "I love you, little brother," and collapsed on Walter. Walter tried his best to hold his friend up, but crumbled beneath the weight of the man. As he fell, he felt Porter's body cover his, effectively concealing him from the horror that was going on around them.

Walter didn't have the strength, it seemed, to push Porter off of him. He could, however, turn his head slightly, and tried to look around, but all he saw were his friends lying on the ground, not moving now at all. Walter shut his eyes, but he could still hear the sound of automatic weapons firing, but that soon died down. He felt someone lift Porter off of him, and opened his eyes to see a Vietnamese man standing over him. He tried to stare into the almond-shaped eyes, but things kept getting darker and darker, as if the sun was setting. Which was unusual, because Walter had just looked at his watch moments before, and it was only a little after 3 in the afternoon. But the darkness was descending, and Walter tried to squint up through it to see the man standing over him. He could only now just make out a silhouette of the person through the growing blackness surrounding him. And soon, there was nothing left to see.

When Walter came to, he was back in the clearing. He looked around and his friends laying on the ground, unmoving. He walked over to the Lieutenant, and nudged him over with his foot. He gazed with horror at his commanding officer, taking in the dreadful injuries the man had sustained. He walked over to Berkeley, and looked at his unblinking eyes. One by one, he assessed the damages done to his companions walking at the last minute over to where Porter and Jenkins lay.

Jenkins lay on his back, sightless eye staring at the heavens. Walter felt sick as he looked at his friend's injuries. Almost half of Jenkins' body had been torn away from the blast of the grenade. He was only able to identify his buddy by the uninjured side of his face. It was the only clue that this body was his friend.

Porter lay nearby, his corpse littered with bullet wounds. His body had been moved, rolled over onto it's back, his hand outstretched, as if reaching toward a body lying nearby. Walter felt tears run down his face at the horrid fate of his friends. He saw men walking around, and talking softly amongst themselves. There were about a dozen Vietnamese men, and they were stripping the bodies of anything useful. Walter tried to get their attention, to get them to leave his friends alone. He moved toward them, and stumbled over a body lying at his feet. He looked closely at the body, and with a growing sense of dread and terror, Walter realized that the corpse he'd tripped over was his own.

Unbelievingly, he stared at the body lying on the ground, refusing to acknowledge that it was his. As he stared at the boy, he realized that someone was standing at his side. He turned slowly, stifling a sob, and realized it was the little Mama-San he'd seen near the elephant grass. He looked at her stupidly.

He looked around and saw that he was no longer in the clearing. He was unsure about his location, but off in the distance, he saw the other men from his unit walking away from him. He started to move toward them, when he felt the Mama-San grab his sleeve and tug. He looked at her and she gestured off in another direction.

"No," Walter said to her. "I have to go with the other men. Please, I have to go with them."

The small old woman shook her head, and pulled at his sleeve again. He could still make out the images of his friends, moving off toward what seemed to be the sunset. Walter had to squint and shield his eyes in order to see any of them with clarity at all. He could make out Jenkins and Porter, bringing up the rear as always. They both turned around and looked in Walter's direction. He could see them raise their hands in a farewell gesture. He waved back, and started to move toward them, but the Mama-San grabbed him again. She practically dragged him away from the sunset which his friends had not disappeared into.

She pushed at him and prodded him until he understood that she wanted him to lay down on the ground. He tried to talk to her, but she just shook her head and pushed at him again. Walter heaved a sigh, and finally did as the Mama-San told him to. He sat and eased down onto his back. Mama-San gestured for him to close his eyes and he did so.

The next thing Walter was aware of was lying in a soft bed. He opened his eyes to bright sunlight streaming in through the window. He looked around and tried to find the Mama-San, or to find his friends. He was woozy and unfocused, and his whole body hurt. He tried to call for help and realized that there was something stopping him from talking. When he tried to take whatever it was out of his mouth, he discovered that he couldn't move his hands.

A nurse appeared at the bedside, adjusting some tubing, not realizing that Walter was awake. She was startled and leaped away when he moved his hand to touch her. Walter looked at her blearily and tried to speak.

"No, don't try to talk. There's a tube down your throat to help you breathe. You've been hurt pretty badly, young man. Now, just lie still and I'll go get your doctor, ok?" The nurse looked at him expectantly, sure that he would obey her request.

Walter looked back at her and nodded slightly. Considering how he felt, which currently was like warmed over shit, he wasn't in the mood to be arguing with anybody, especially over moving. Which he really didn't want to do anyway.

He closed his eyes, and sooner than he realized, the nurse was back with a doctor at her side. The doctor checked Walter's abdomen and then checked for breathing ability. After doing so, he nodded to himself and instructed the nurse to prepare for an extubation. She nodded and left to get the necessary equipment.

The doctor raised the head of Walter's bed carefully. He looked at Walter and rested a hand on his wrist, taking his pulse. "Well, young man, it seems you are very lucky to be here." Walter's eyebrows came together in a confused expression. "You came to us pretty badly hurt. We did a great job of patching you back together, even if I do say so myself. You should expect a complete recovery. There may be some abdominal scaring, but nothing to concern you right now. You just try your best to get better, all right?

Conversation stopped as the doctor removed the breathing tube from Walter's throat, then offered him a sip of water from the carafe at the bedside. The moisture eased the soreness from Walter's ravaged throat immensely. He cleared his throat, and took another sip of water. He looked up at the doctor and spoke haltingly. "How long? Have I been here? How long?"

"Well," the doctor said, looking at Walter's medical chart, "looks like you've been here for about 2 weeks, give or take a day."

"What about my unit? Where are my friends? Are they here too?" croaked Walter.

The doctor and the nurse exchanged a fast glance. Should they tell him the truth? That decision was taken away from them when Major Honeywell, Colonel Bruno's second in command, approached the bed.

"Well, Skinner, nice to see you back among the living!" the Major beamed. "You're a very lucky young man! Lucky as hell! I'm sorry about the rest of your unit, son. I've never seen such a mess as the one you ended up in, Skinner. Nine men lost, only one survivor. You. You were the only one left alive at the site of the ambush. Bravo Unit came by moments after the fighting had stopped, and found you still with us, just barely. Shit, boy, you were in the body bag already when someone noticed it moving. You're a very lucky man indeed, a very lucky man."

Walter stopped listening to the Major at that point, even though the man continued to babble at him. It seemed to Walter that the Major had started talking in Swahili or something, because Walter couldn't understand a word he was saying. Only survivor? All the rest were dead? Even Jenkins and Porter? No, this couldn't be true. It couldn't be happening. There had to be someone else. Shit, he'd even settle for LeVoy right about now, talking about Karma and all that mystic shit he spouted.

And what about the Mama-San? Where had she gone off to? Walter tried to refocus on what the Major was saying and croaked out, "Where's the Mama-San? Where did she go? I wanted to talk to her. Where is she?"

The doctor gave him a puzzled look, and Major Honeywell was stunned. "Skinner, what Mama-San? You were alone when Bravo Unit found you. There was no Mama-San."

"But there was, sir. She stayed with me when the other men went away. She stayed with me. She wouldn't let me go with them."

"I'm sorry, son, you must be confused still from the concussion you received. There wasn't any Mama-San," Honeywell said.

Walter just stared at the officer standing at his bedside. He didn't realize it, but his hands had begun to grab and release the bedclothes, gripping them almost to the point of tearing. Walter kept trying to ease his mind around the fact that he was the only one left alive. He was having a difficult time accepting the fact that nobody was left alive, among all his friends.

He had started rocking back and forth in his bed, clutching and unclutching the sheets in his hands. He had begun to make a keening sound in his throat, a cross between a whine and a growl. All of these actions scared Major Honeywell to the point that he'd needed to back away from Walter's bedside.

The doctor stepped in front of Major Honeywell and pushed him back forcibly. "What are you, a complete asshole? How dare you come waltzing in here and break this type of news to my patient like this? Have you no common sense? Have you absolutely no compassion? This man has just returned from hell and you come in here and dump all this news on him before he's completely ready for it. Even a healthy man would have problems accepting this news, and then to be told in this manner. You, sir, are a complete and total fuckup, and I want you out of my hospital! NOW!" the doctor ranted at Major Honeywell. He then stepped away form Walter's bedside, and whispered to a nurse. She hurried away and retrieved something from a cabinet nearby.

"Where's Porter? Where's Jenkins? I need to talk to the old lady. Where is she? Where are Jack and Ronnie? Why won't you get them for me? Where are they? We gotta find that old lady. I need to talk to Mama-San! We have to find them!"

Walter looked from Major Honeywell to the doctor, and then the nurse. His voice, ragged from the intubation, rose until it was a shrill scream. Major Honeywell just stared at the young man, back up slowly until he could move no more. The nurse was at Walter's side, attempting to calm the hysterical man. The doctor stepped to the head of the bed and injected something quickly into the IV that was slowly dripping into Walter's arm.

Only a few minutes passed before Walter started to calm, getting sleepier by the moment. He kept begging the other men for his friends, or the woman who'd led him from the light, but no one seemed to hear him. Finally, Walter sagged back against the bed, gave a final sigh, and went back to sleep.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Two months after his release from the hospital, Walter found himself at a base camp near Saigon. He had his duffel bag at his feet, and his papers in hand. He was going home, back to the World. He was dressed in his khaki uniform with his low quarters and new rank on his sleeve when a gunnery sergeant passed him by.

"Going somewhere, Corporal?" the gunny asked.

"Home, Gunny," replied Walter.

"Son, let me give you a piece of advice," the gunny said. He sat down next to Walter. "First of all, you don't want to go home dressed in a uniform. They'll be all over you in a heartbeat at the airport when you land. Peaceniks, protesters, you name it, they're there in force. You don't want to give them any ammunition to nail your butt to the wall. You got civvies with you? Good, go change into them, right now. I'll watch your gear for you. Then come back here, and you can get on that plane. I heard about you, son, and I ain't letting one of our own walk into a shitstorm back in the world. You've already been in enough of them here. Now, go change your clothes."

"Yes, Gunny," replied Walter. He found the nearest empty room and quickly changed into his civilian clothing. He folded his uniform neatly, took it back with him to the gunnery sergeant and tucked it into his duffel bag.

"Better, much better. Besides, you look more comfortable. Let me clue you, son, the more little things you can do to make yourself comfortable on this ride, the better you're gonna feel about it. They'll probably fly you to a base in Guam, and then stick you on a commercial flight. A little tip for you, son. Check your duffel bag, and anything that gives you away as being a soldier. Retrieve them away from the protesters. What protesters? The ones that will be there, 9 times out of 10. Where you claim your bags is usually far enough away so they don't hassle you so badly. If they get a clue that you're military, they'll be all over you like stink on shit, and you don't need that right now. Hell, son, nobody needs it, ever. So, you follow my advice, and you'll get off that plane safe and sound."

"Thanks, Gunny. I didn't know about any of that stuff. I appreciate you're telling me," Walter said softly.

"No problem, son. It's what I'm here for." The loudspeaker announced that the plane Walter was to leave on was ready to board. The gunnery sergeant stood up, and so did Walter. Walter saluted, and the gunny did the same, then extended his hand for a handshake. Walter took it, gratefully. "Safe flight home, Marine. Semper Fi," the gunny said gently.

"Semper Fi, gunny. Semper Fi."

\-----------------------------------------

Walter lay there, unmoving, until a hand gently came to rest on his belly. A soft voice spoke in the darkness.

"You ok, Walter?"

Walter took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"Bad dream?"

"At first," Walter admitted. "But then I just kinda got lost in the past, you know?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately."

Walter smiled to himself. Of course the man beside him would know. Who would know better than another ex-marine?

"Would it help to talk about it?" came a soft voice from the other side of the bed.

"I'm not sure. I've not spoken of this to anyone," Walter admitted.

"We'll listen, Walter, anytime you want us to." John said, resting his head on Walter's shoulder.

Walter felt the kiss on his shoulder as Alex's green eyes came into view above him. "I've had my share of white nights, Walter. We all have."

Walter pulled him down for a kiss. "I know. But now, I just need you close, both of you." Pulling Alex in for another kiss, he felt John rise up on the bed and lips touch the side of his neck in a gentle caress.

Both of them knew that what Walter needed tonight was not their usual type of lovemaking, which was generally fierce and wild, but an affirmation that he was alive, that he was loved, needed, wanted. That he was a good man, worthy of that love. Loving that would chase the bad memories away, at least temporarily.

Walter felt himself being tenderly kissed, the kiss deepening as moments went by. He could also feel hands stroking his chest, and another mouth along his collarbone, nipping and licking the flesh and bone there. He could feel Alex's lips moving along his jawline, down the side of his neck, to that sweet spot just below his ear.

John, meanwhile, had lowered his sites, making the nipple now under his scrutiny stand up and pay attention. His hand stroked along Walter's chest, stopping just around the navel, not wanting to go farther until Alex caught up. Alex had moved back up to Walter's ear, and was teasing the earlobe caught in his teeth.

Walter groaned, and moved his face around to kiss Alex, tongues dueling momentarily in search of control. Walter, deciding he didn't want to take charge after all, relented and let Alex take charge of the kiss, slowing it down, and deepening it. Alex drew back, and Walter could see the smile on his face. "Just lie back. Let us do the work tonight, lover."

John came up, and turned Walter's face towards his, kissing him. "Enjoy the ride."

Walter gasped as both of his lovers began. The dual sensations they created as they mirrored the others actions never failed to excite him. As one, they nipped and licked his nipples, stopping every few minutes to kiss each other, knowing that Walter enjoyed seeing them together. Hands touched him, rough, callused hands, with strong fingers, exerting pressure on his body in a way that Sharon's hand never had the strength to do.

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes as the hands that had been circling each other on his chest now reached lower, one to wrap around his hardening cock, the other to grasp his balls and gently pull on the sack. He felt hands urging his to open his legs wider, giving better access to the searching hands

He realized he had drifted off on the sensations because all of a sudden, his cock was engulfed in a warm, wet heat of a mouth. His eyes snapped open and he groaned, then gasped suddenly as he felt the brush of a tongue over and around his balls, lapping gently at the tender spot just behind. Looking down, he saw impish green eyes crinkled at him in what could only be a grin, but the mouth was a bit preoccupied to join in. He saw blue eyes appear over the top of Alex's head, as he felt a lube-covered finger begin to caress his asshole and the other hand roll his balls in the sack.

Closing his eyes again, he let the feelings wash over him, Alex's lips and tongue stroking and sucking, John easing in a finger, then two, taking the time to find and softly stroke his prostate, turning that gentle wash into a surge of pleasure. Moaning, he began to softly pump his hips up into the heat surrounding him, feeling those fingers slide into him faster and faster, keeping pace.

His gasps and low moans let his partners know he was rapidly approaching completion. Alex applied just a bit more suction, circling the head of Walter's cock with his tongue on the upstroke. John, feeling Walter's balls tighten and rise up closer to his body, squeezed Alex's shoulder, letting him know to get ready. After two more strokes of Alex's mouth, John nudged the hard nub inside Walter's body once, twice, and once more.

Walter roared.

John felt Walter bear down on his fingers, felt his body tense and tremble through his orgasm. Alex, having had the warning from John, had moved his mouth to the end of Walter's cock, swallowing the fluid pouring out of body underneath, holding him until the body settled once more.

Feeling Walter relax, John eased his fingers out, and, taking off his t-shirt, used it to wipe them off. Looking up at the sated face of his large lover, he reached over and drew Alex into a deep kiss, tasting Walter on his lips and tongue. Grabbing the lube up again, he poured more into his hand and some into Alex's. John knew that it wouldn't take long and Alex would come, hell, they were both worked up at watching Walter. Reaching over for another kiss, he stroked Alex's cock firmly, feeling Alex's hand wrapped around his. A few strokes later, they moaned their completion into each others mouths. When they had softened, John grabbed his t-shirt again and wiped them off. They looked up to see Walter watching them under half-closed lids, a smile on his face.

Walter opened his arms, feeling them both snuggle down under the blankets. He wrapped his arms around both men, kissed each one on the forehead, and sighed again as they brought the blankets up, covering them all. Closing his eyes, Walter felt reassured by the love of these two men, felt their strength and their support. He knew the day was not long in coming when he would be strong enough to share with them the horrors of the night, and also knew in his heart, that between the three of them, they could bring the horrors into the light of day, where they would no longer be able to control him.

The End

  
Archived: November 03, 2001 


End file.
